ThatWinchieGuy's Star Fox One-Shot Collection
by ThatWinchieGuy
Summary: A collection of One-Shots, most of which are stories I think will work better as One-Shots, or stories I think are too short to become full-length fics. Includes insanity stories, FoxXKrystal, FalcoXKatt, Dark, twisted stories, as well as other unique ideas. A plethora of strange and bizzare tales. Reviews are GREATLY appreciated and will always be used to further my writing skill.
1. FOREWORD

**Welcome to my new One-Shot Collection! This is just where I will put all my ideas that are either too short to become full length fics, stories that I think can be executed better as One-Shots, strange, cryptic writing, crossovers….basically, this Collection will show people how I write. This is sort of like my drafting board for all my Star Fox fics. I promise, some of it will be good, some bad, and others still will make you wonder what the hell is wrong with me. **

**First off, I want to say that some of these fics will be somewhat….fucked up? I kind of like taking a character and just giving them a really dark, terrible challenge, and then seeing how they'd react. I'm even playing with the idea of doing 4 fics, one for each member for Star Fox, giving all of them the same problem, and, based off who they are, see how they'd react. I think that'd be a fun thing to write.**

**Also, I am going to write a lot of mushy, lovey-dovey stuff. Now before you all complain, no I am not going to put it somewhere else. I'm writing it. I like writing mushy stuff. So there's gonna be mushy stuff. Lots of FoxXKrystal. And FalcoXKatt. Stuff like that.**

**Also, sexual content warning. It just adds realism. Not taking that out either. **

**And blood and gore. Like I said, there's gonna be some weird shit. Not like, rape or anything, but weird shit. Like 'Walking Dead game eating people on a random farm' weird shit. If you haven't played that game then what are you doing with your life? Go buy it. **

**Anyways, I really REALLY **_**REALLY, **_**need your feedback on these stories. I use all you guys' feedback to further my writing, it's sophistication, and my style. If I don't get feedback, I stop writing. It's as simple as that. That's one of the main motivators for me to even start a One-Shot Collection. If I don't write, I get worse. If I get worse, I stop writing entirely. This is going to be my place to vent off from my main story. Like, right now I'm writing **_**Star Fox: My Life is Yours,**_** which is my first fic. I want to develop from that, I want to get better at writing so that one day I can maybe break away from Fan fiction and form my own stories. **

**Some of these stories will be connected to each other. I'm going to make that very clear in the Author's Foreword AND the chapter names, just so there's no confusion. **

**I may also create an OC or two. I'm not sure. But they most certainly will not be humans. I hate that "look humans meet Star Fox" stuff. If you're writing something like that, I'm sorry if I offended you. I just think it's so unoriginal. **

**Also might do some Q/A's here. I think that'd be a fun thing for the whole community. **

**So if you want to help a fledgling writer and read some different fics, come here. I promise it will be worth your while. **

**-ThatWinchieGuy**


	2. Slave

**Slave**

From what Fox could tell, the room was dark. Fox never did like the dark. It reminded him of space. Only death occurred in space. It was strange; Fox spent so much time there, yet he hated it.

A blindfold was tied-a bit too tightly, mind you- around Fox's head. He could not see anything, not even light passing through the stitches in the worn out fabric that blocked his vision. He would have to use his other senses.

He inhaled a large amount of the humid air that hung in the empty space before him like the limbs of a weeping willow tree.

_Not a good idea,_ he thought, grimacing. The room smelled of rotting meat, mixed with urine and sweat. Fox then tried to touch things, to feel around the room and try to figure out where he was. He became nervous when he realized he couldn't. His hands, too, were also tied tightly; they sat in a mangled pile behind the broken chair he sat in. He winced as he tried to break free; apparently one of his fingers was broken. What other injuries did he have?

Checking his body for any pains, Fox noticed a particularly strong ache in his groin, as well as two large gashes on his left calf. From what he could tell, they were bandaged.

_Someone was caring for him. _

Well, in relative terms, anyways. It was clear he wasn't supposed to be dead. Whoever brought him here brought him here for a reason. Fox wondered who it could be. Any non-descript criminal could've gotten the drop on him, he supposed. But that just didn't seem right. If a criminal got a hold of Fox….he was as good as dead. And this seemed too…..well- planned to be the plot of someone of that intelligence. No, clearly a smarter person's plans were unfolding here.

Fox continued to struggle, but his damaged finger did not give him many options. If he tried any harder, he'd only damage it further, and then he'd be in a big spot of trouble. There had to be some way out. Perhaps he could reason with his captors. Not likely, but perhaps worth a shot.

Hold on…where were his clothes?

_This isn't really happening. This is all a dream. Or a nightmare. Or a deadly combination of the two. You'll see, Fox. You'll wake up and be in bed and you'll climb out and go to work at the Academy just like you do every boring, monotonous day of your life. _

Something broke into his subconscious.

_That's not going to happen, Fox. You're going to be here forever._

"AHH!" he exclaimed, kicking his legs, causing the chair to fall over on it's side, with the subdued Fox still sitting in it. "Ohhhh…..Shit…." he groaned. His groin screamed for help now, along with his finger, and his gashes cried for surgeons. He was in worse shape than he thought. Fox now noticed a large bruise on the back of his head. He was lucky he hadn't smashed it against the gravely ground, which had left it's bloody mark on Fox's cheek.

What was that? The voice in his head? To whom did it belong? What did they want with him?

Fox's instincts kicked in, and through the ear that was not planted firmly into the dirt, he could hear a soft creaking sound.

The door to the room was opening.

A person stepped in. Only one. Fox began to breathe heavily. What was going to happen? Fox felt his face pull away from the ground as the other entity in the room picked up the chair, setting it upright.

"Thank you," Fox managed to whisper. Why was he talking to this person? Obviously something was seriously wrong with them.

Suddenly, a large piece of wood came crashing into Fox's thigh, splintering shards of wood into it.

"AHHH! Fuck me! What the hell is wrong with you, you crazy bastard?!" His face contorted with pain as he tried- to no avail- to keep is groans inside of him. A cursed underneath his breath. Had they left yet?

"Do not disrespect me. I own you. You are mine." The voice said. Whoever it was was using a scrambler; it wasn't their real voice. The entity came up behind him, and laid a soft hand on his shoulder.

_Clearly a woman. Odd,_ Fox thought.

Only the hand didn't stop there. It continued over his shoulder, and down the length of his bare chest. Slowly moving lower. Lower….

_Oh, fuck no!_ Fox thought, frantically thinking for a solution. He kicked his legs once more, sending shockwaves of pain throughout his groin. The chair twisted backwards, landing on it's back, crushing Fox's hands. He yelped in pain, but soon noticed that he was not alone. The chair had landed on the woman's feet, smashing into her toes. Fox took every ounce of strength his body had left and centered it in his abdominals. He clenched them, which sent his chair rolling back wards over his body and towards the other person in the room. Fox tucked his legs in, and prepared to kick. With luck, he'd land a direct hit.

He was lucky this day.

His bare foot went crashing into the woman's forehead, knocking her down to the ground. Fox lay there for a moment, panting, and thinking about what had just occurred. The woman didn't seem to be moving.

The entity came into his subconscious again.

_We could have been something, you and I. But now look at us. Why?_

"Oh my God…." Fox said, attempting to get one look at the other person in the room. He believed he knew who she was.

Fox lay there for hours, frantically trying to break free of the bonds his captor had tied around his wrists. He had to give it to her; they were efficient knots, though annoying. Finally, Fox wrenched his left hand free and began untying all the knots in different spots on his body.

Fox slid the blindfold off of his eyes, blinking them back open. He checked to see if his hypothesis was correct; he was indeed injured on the head, hands, groin, and calf. Badly as well. He'd need to see a doctor, and soon. The gashes on his calf had opened up again, and, although they were bandaged, hadn't been cleaned in quite some time. Fox wouldn't be surprised if he had caught a disease while in here.

After retrieving his clothes, Fox turned his attention towards his captor. He couldn't see her face clearly in the dim lighting of the torture room, and walked over to the light switch near the doorway to remedy this. When he turned around, his worst fears- as well as his greatest dreams- were fulfilled.

In the center of the room, next to the bloody chair, lay a cerulean- colored fox, with a small trickle of blood flowing from the back of her skull. Her teal- colored eyes stared lazily at the ceiling.

_Dead,_ Fox thought, walking over to examine her more closely.

It was indeed the woman he had fallen in love with all those years ago. She wasn't the same. Her fur had turned a darker color; the white patterns which were ingrained in her had become a dark gray. Her face showed signs of age, although Fox knew she was only 38. What had happened to her after her betrayal? Clearly nothing positive. Fox didn't care to know. While he did miss Krystal….he did not miss Kursed. He was glad that she was put out of her misery. It was then that Fox noticed tears flowing from her eyes like the outlets of a sewer. The tears were not clear; they were murky, with a dark black mist lulling around lazily inside each perfectly formed drop.

"It's a shame, your story." Fox said, picking himself up off of his knees and limping over to the door.

**I want to give a huge shoutout to ** **Razorblade88 for his influence on the idea for this story.**

**-ThatWinchieGuy**


	3. Homeless

**Homeless**

**Falco Lombardi Ponders the Meaning of Life**

What's life meant for when you've got nothing left to live for? When the dust's settled, the fog of war cleared, and you find yourself, sitting alone in the darkness of a new night. What then? Do we continue on, living our lives as sheep, being shepherded by society at the dawn of each day? Or do we fight to find something to live for? To we continue to press further into hell, peeling away the layers of pain and grief until we find the true core of what it means to be a person?

What does it mean to live? True, many people are alive, but few live. Perhaps life is a relative term; one can take it as one sees fit. You could consider living as just being able to see, breath, walk, and talk. You could also see living as having fun, and protecting something, as well as a collection of other interpretations. Each person sees life differently, and thus, each person lives life differently.

This is what Falco Lombardi thought about, spitting out the last drops of blood clogging his throat. Life had not been kind to Falco, who sat, cold and diseased, underneath the sewer outlet in the south district of Corneria City. Sores had grown on his once deep blue cheeks, which were now colored like a dead blueberry. A large ulcer had formed on his left knee, causing movement to become difficult. Falco usually sat underneath the sewer outlet during the night, and, during the day, dragged himself up to the bridge that was currently above him, where he sat for hours on end, begging for help.

What DID he have left? No money, no food, no friends, no family, and no belongings save for a broken blaster and his light garments. He'd tried, long ago, to find someone willing to fix the blaster, so that he might begin some sort of work. But, alas, the ulcer came, and restricted Falco to the cold, poor quarter of the city in which he currently resided. Falco took the blaster out of it's makeshift holster- two pieces of wet cardboard tied together with some twine- and looked at it. That blaster had saved him on more than a few occasions when he was a mercenary. Falco hardly remembered his life as a member of Star Fox. He only remembered the here and now; how much money he had, when he would have to eat something, what time it was based on the sun's location, how many days until the cold winds of winter came crashing into his tiny piece of hell beneath the sewer.

Where was Fox now? Falco didn't know. To his knowledge, he and Krystal had gotten married. Maybe they had even had a family. If only he could get to Fox….maybe, for once, he'd be shown compassion. But Fox's house was at least a full three miles away, and Falco was in absolutely no condition to walk more than a few hundred feet.

Slippy, to be frank, Falco could care less about. He never truly liked the toad, only tolerated him. There was a sense of respect between the two of them, but nothing more. Falco doubted that, even if he did find the amphibian, he wouldn't get much from him. Peppy was certainly dead; the last time Falco had seen him the old hare was in his 70's. That was about 20 years ago.

And Katt…..Katt Monroe. In the forefront of his mind, Falco scoffed at her name. But, deep inside his subconscious, he craved the sight of her face. She had been his everything. Until that fateful day, 4 years ago, when everything went to shit in a matter of hours. Falco pushed these thoughts aside; it was pointless to think about his past. Nobody in those stories of old would've really cared to come find him, and thus the stories were deemed useless by the stubborn bird.

Did life even have a point anymore for him? Was all this suffering going to be worth anything at some point? Falco doubted it. But, for some odd reason, Falco felt a faint desire inside of him to fight on; to continue breathing and living in the Lylat system. He didn't want to die. Not yet, at least. He wasn't ready to go. Then again, he hadn't been ready for most of the situations that got him to where he was now. Perhaps this is what life meant to him; the chain of fortunate and unfortunate events that happen to a person, which all lead to a final outcome. These events could not be altered or changed, they simply happen, and, based on how you react, you get a positive or negative outcome from it.

If this was the case, Falco had fallen victim to the cruel hands of Fate that shape each and every person's lives. He certainly wouldn't be the first. Maybe there were others out there, living in the holes beneath society's every day activities, slowly passing away with each raspy breath they took. If others did exist, he wouldn't find them; he'd tried that already. No, he was well and truly left alone to deal with this problem.

Falco wasn't sure that there actually was a way out. Suicide, perhaps, but he didn't want to die. He wanted to come back and fix everything that Fate had messed up. He wanted to rise up above the cold sewer hole and be able to say "I conquered death! Me, Falco Lombardi!"

…

Falco stayed there for hours, not sleeping a second. The pain in his knee was too great, making sleep a luxury when it finally came in the small hours of the morning. That luxury was not coming tonight. He picked himself up, wincing and groaning with the immense effort, and began dragging the dead weight of his leg up the slope leading to society above. When he finally reached the bridge, he judged that it was about 8 in the morning. Cars whizzed past him, blowing even more cold air into the open sores on his face. The wind cut into him like a chainsaw, making him shiver and curl his body up for the small amount of warmth that remained in his wretched state.

Many people passed by him, some staring at him with curiosity, while others simply disregarded his presence. Falco was sure that he'd seen some of them before, and he was also sure that many had noticed the rotting pile of body by the curb. They were either too busy to care or too revolted to want to help. Falco didn't mind; he rarely cared for the thoughts of others before, why should he now?

…

This never-ending cycle continued for months. Up the slope to the street, to be put aside by civilization, and down the slope to seek refuge from the coming night. Falco's condition slowly deteriorated, and, come winter, he was as good as dead. The ulcer remained, infested with small insects which crawled over it's surface. With no way to clean it, and no visible medication in sight, Falco decided to harbor to bugs; there was no point in trying to eliminate them. The sores, too, remained. Falco had found a small bottle of antiseptic not only a week ago, which he used to clear to sores. They healed for a short time, and were just beginning to open up again. This undoubtedly would lead to further infection.

It was clear to Falco that there wasn't much time left. His past 3 winters had been brutal, and that was without the injuries and diseases he was plagued with now. He was certain that this winter would be his last. He lay there, shivering in the snowy night, slowly breathing his last few breaths. Perhaps death would be coming sooner than expected.

What happened? Why him? Surely he didn't deserve it. Sure, he was an asshole at times, but he wasn't evil. He'd saved lives.

_He'd saved lives._

Falco's beaten face smiled at that fact. That was what he had been born to do. And those times were over. His death was long overdue.

What a fool he had been. If he had noticed this before, noticed that his true purpose had been complete….he would've ended it all years ago, when his tiny, frozen blaster was still in working condition.

Falco took a small rock from the ground, and began inscribing something into the blaster.

**SUCCESS**

When he had finished this, Falco took the blaster in his hands. He walked out onto the concrete shores of the sewer's river. Falco lay down, holding the small metal plaque over his heart.

…..

**Well, that was dark. As always, please leave a review if you enjoyed, and if you didn't enjoy it, leave and even longer review! **

**-ThatWinchieGuy**


	4. Up So Early?

**Up So Early?**

Fox wasn't so sure why he was so protective of her; it's not like they were dating or anything. Still, he didn't like the way she always talked with other men. Then again, the militaristic lifestyle is full of, well, men, so he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. There wasn't really anybody else to talk to but other men. There weren't any women.

He didn't like her; no, it couldn't be that. He just didn't want her to get hurt; to see all his hard work of saving her to go to waste. Surely that had to be it. But those guys wouldn't hurt her; they were his peers, his comrades. So why was he filled with such anger when Krystal was around other men?

Fox found himself thinking about Krystal quite frequently; he wasn't sure why. He'd think random, sporadic thoughts about her and what she did. Her deep cerulean eyes, the funny way she snorted when she laughed, the shine of her hair, the shape of her lips. Once again, Fox had no idea why. Was something wrong? Why, all of the sudden, did Fox have this strange desire to think about her? He'd never felt this way about any other girl. He decided to chalk it up to telepathy; surely in some way she was affecting him, and life continued as normal.

Fox enjoyed their short encounters very much. Whenever something went wrong, there was Krystal-unintentionally of course- to brighten his mood. She always seemed to appear when he was angry, upset, or deep in thought, and he always walked away feeling happy and confused. Why was it her that made him feel this way?

Fox lay in his bunk aboard the Great Fox, contemplating all of these major questions. He gazed out of the small window, watching the planet Zoness slowly shrinking back into the folds of the black void. The blue oceans of the resort planet reminded him of her eyes.

He jolted his head away from the window, attempting to clear his thoughts out to no avail. Fox pulled himself up out of the linen sheet of the bunk and sat with his feet hanging off the metal bed and onto the titanium floor. He rustled the white fur between his two ears while shaking his head. Fox looked over to the digital clock which sat on the nightstand.

_0500 _

He had been thinking about her all night.

….

Fox dragged the dead weight of his sleepy body into the kitchen, bee lining for the fridge. Perhaps food was what could shake the vixen from his mind. He slapped a groggy paw onto the handle and tugged gently, letting the cold air out into the dark room. Sitting there, in front of Fox's face, was a small plastic container of blueberries.

"Fucking hell…." Fox moaned, closing the door in defeat. It seemed fate was determined to keep Krystal in his thoughts. Why did everything remind him of her? Maybe he was developing feelings for her. No, that couldn't be it. Not at all, surely. He was 19; she, 17. It didn't make sense. No, she was too young. But damn, was she pretty. No, no, no. Nothing would ever happen there. Would it? Maybe she liked an older man. Fox was older. Maybe she liked mercenaries. Fox was one of those.

"What am I thinking?" Fox thought. There was no chance of them ever dating; she was a Cerinian refugee, who helped others clearly out of the kindness of her heart. What was Fox? He was someone who killed people for money. It was like saying there was a chance of love between a beautiful princess and a peasant farmer. There was no chance.

Fox heard footsteps, padding their way through the halls of the dreadnaught. He noticed he was standing there, and flung himself at the refrigerator door so that he didn't look too awkward.

"Good morning?" a feminine voice asked.

It was Krystal, standing in the doorway.

"Oh, uhm…Good morning, I suppose…" Fox responded.

Why was it so awkward? It was never this way between them, even when they'd been alone before.

"Uhm…Fox…" She said, giggling and holding one hand over her mouth.

_Fox was in his underwear._

"Oh , shit, I'm sorry, I just….oh god…."

"Don't, worry about it," she said, laughing at how embarrassed he was. Fox noticed her gaze shift downwards quickly a few times as he tried to duck behind something to better cover himself.

"Dammit, I'm so sorry…..this is so bad…" Fox said.

"Fox, it's alright, you're better clothed than half the people on Cerinia. And I'm not judging." She said, still laughing. "You can come out, if you want." Fox had dove behind the counter.

"Uhm, yeah, as long as you're comfortable."

"What're you doing up so early?" She asked, shifting away from the subject entirely.

"I'm…just hungry, that's all."

"Are you sure?" She asked, moving closer to him.

"Uhm…." Fox shrugged, glancing down at her body, then quickly looking up to avoid being awkward.

Krystal just continued advancing towards him, pushing him against the wall. She pressed his body against his until their muzzles were practically touching.

"Krystal?"

Fox snapped awake, speaking her name as he slammed his head into the low ceiling above him.

"Get up, Tsunami Dreamer," Falco said, throwing a shoe at him.


	5. Meeting the Parents

**Meeting the Parents**

Krystal walked out into the blazing hot streets underneath the Cornerian summer. Those around her moved slowly, without purpose, as if the searing heat had stopped their hearts. Krystal, however, was perfectly at home. In fact, it was cooler than she was used to. There was no humidity here in the city; the opposite could be said for the rainforests and jungles of Cerinia.

She was headed out for a day of….recreation. That seems a suitable word. Her soft blue feet shifted quickly on the paved streets, which she still was not fully accustomed to. The look and feel of them shocked her; how could any person create something so smooth and perfect? Perhaps she'd learn soon. The roads were not the only miracle of modern civilization that frightened her; the large skyscrapers still scared her. It was as if the gods themselves were looking down directly at her, criticizing her every move. She feared and respected her gods, since she was their last follower. No other person in existence even knew they existed. Except him, of course.

Krystal had tried to explain her religion to Fox, who was an outspoken atheist. He didn't denounce her beliefs, but he chose not to worship any god. Krystal didn't understand; without her faith, she'd probably killed herself long ago. Maybe people think differently about these things.

She wasn't far now. Why didn't Fox say where she was going? He just gave her an address and told her to be there. Usually, he'd pick her up when they went to hang out. This clearly had to be something special. Maybe he'd ask now….

She rounded the corner, walking onto the street she was looking for. She remembered the address.

_26 February Road, Corneria City._

But when Krystal finally arrived, she found herself staring at a cemetery.

Confused, she looked around. Surely she had the wrong place.

"Glad you came," Fox said from a short distance behind her, "beautiful, isn't it?"

A place of the dead never seemed to be the height of beauty to her. In fact, she hated cemeteries; they only reminded her of all the dead left unburied on Cerinia's remains.

"Why are we here?" she asked, still puzzled.

"Come, follow me. There's someone I want you to meet."

…..

Fox and Krystal walked through the gravel pathways of the cemetery. Krystal always paid close attention to Fox when they were around each other; it was just one of the weird quirks she picked up when she figured out she liked him. He seemed peaceful. He'd never behaved this way before. It was like he knew that nobody could touch him here, that something was hovering over him, protecting him.

They came to a stop in front of a medium sized tombstone, which appeared to be newer than most. Fox smiled, and kneeled down by it.

"Krystal, I want you to meet my father, James."

"How are you so happy right now?" she asked.

"Why, I'm with my family! What reason do I have to be sad?" he replied calmly, looking away from the grave and up at her.

"But he's gone, he's left us."

"He's right here."

Krystal pondered this. She wished she could feel the same way about the death of her family that he did about the death of his.


	6. Not a Loser

**Not A Loser**

Fox wasn't a loser. He had "friends," people to talk to. To associate himself with. He didn't necessarily want to associate himself with anybody, but that's how things go in high school. You join a group and you stay there. No social mobility, like the hierarchies of ancient times. So primitive….so….stupid. Yes, almost everybody around him was a selfish prick, bent on one or two simple, meaningless goals in life. "I want to become a professional sports player," or, "I want someone to love me for me." Idiotic, childish goals. Fox wanted more. He wanted to survive.

Surviving is not living on the edge, barely passing by as each new day charges at you with renewed vigor, slowly devouring you. Surviving is thriving; overcoming and creating. Fox wanted to create, to discover. He wanted to be the reason that his race knew something new.

But something nagged at him. A deep, painful feeling. It determined his mood, how he acted, everything he did. It sat inside his stomach, deciding his fate. Whether he'd be nice or malicious, eat or not, happy or sad. There wasn't a way to control it. Fox just pushed on, despite the sadness it caused him; the emotions it brought out. Depression. Fox felt like he needed someone. Someone he could trust completely and share his life with. That was all he really wanted right now. That was all he really needed.

But he also liked solitude; time spent alone. To be frank, Fox didn't like the people around him. Not at all. All of them seemed like idiots, for the most part. Messing up the part of their lives where they should be planning and thinking about the future. So stupid.

Perhaps he was a loser. Perhaps he was an antisocial freak. Perhaps that part of his psyche was taking over him; perhaps that was what he'd become as an adult. Fox didn't know. He knew facts. He believed in facts and evidence. But this? There was no evidence for this. The future cannot be foretold. This scares Fox; not knowing what's around the next corner. He can try and try, but he cannot succeed. Only time will bring the answers.

Were there others like him? Fox thought so. There had to be. This had to be a normal thing. He wasn't different from everyone; just smarter. Yes, that was it. Just smarter. He wasn't being excluded. He was just smarter, and they were jealous. Yes…

Someone had to be out there that was exactly like him.

But he would need to find them first.

….

Fox adopted this new mission; finding his other half. They'd have to know something of use; tell him how to rid himself of this longing, this burden. Nobody he talked to was even close to being anything like him. Always caught up in who's dating who and how to impress people. So Fox branched out. He started talking to new people, trying to get inside their mind and figure out who they were. Nobody matched.

Months went by, and nothing changed. Fox still felt like a puppet. No control…

….

Summer came, and the longing ceased…for a time. Soon, it was back in full force. Fox slipped deeper and deeper into the abyss. The way out grew thinner and thinner, until, finally, all glints of hope seemed to vanish. He'd stay this way for a while; constantly pitying himself, wallowing in his own sadness.

September came, and Fox dragged himself out of bed, into the morning sun, and off onto the sidewalk. He felt crushed, like he couldn't walk, like he should just die on the sidewalk and be done with it. He looked as his fur; something he hadn't done in a while. It had turned a much darker shade of red, now like rusted iron.

All these feelings under a clear blue sky.

He stumbled into the courtyard of the high school, looking around at all the people. Judging them.

_Slut._

_Idiot. _

_Weirdo. _

And then he looked down at himself, judging.

_Fuck up. Screw you._

He turned his graying eyes upward, back towards the crowd, scowling. Silently judging each person there. Perhaps he was trying to find someone worse off than himself.

And then he saw something odd. Someone he'd never seen before, staring directly at him, with the same scowl on her face. Fox tilted his head, confused. Who the hell was she? And why was she looking at him like that? Was this the way others felt when he looked at them?

She began walking towards him, her long leather coat drifting slowly behind her. She was cute, actually. Short, big eyes, scarlet fur….

"Who the hell do you think you are?" she asked, following Fox, who had begun walking away to avoid this exact conversation.

"I was going to ask you the same thing." He said, turning around.

The two of them looked one another over for a quick moment.

"Well, I asked first. It's common courtesy for you to answer."

"I'm Fox. Fox McCloud." Fox said, turning to leave.

"Fara Phoenix," she said, trailing after him.

"Doesn't ring a bell… new?"

"Yeah. Moved here a week ago."

"Nice town. You like it?" Why was he being courteous?

"No, it sucks," she said, quickly spurting out another sentence before he could speak, " I know who you are."

"Bullshit," Fox said, scowling. He swore he was becoming more and more like Wolf O'Donnel every day.

"Sorry about your dad," Fara began. Fox started to turn, to yell at her, maybe even push her. Nobody talked about James McCloud. Nobody. He let her continue, bottling up his anger.

"So when will you take over?"

"Take over what?" Fox asked; a rhetorical question.

"Star Fox. You're going to lead them again, right?"

"Maybe…" Fox's voice trailed into the wind.

"I like you. You're not an idiot like everyone else here. Everybody else shrugged me off until I talked to you."

"Well, that makes two." Fox said, grinning at her.

"I'll see you around, McCloud." And she was gone.

Fox wasn't a loser.

**Okay, so, quick writer's update. I haven't been able to type for two reasons; 1. I got in a car accident and smashed my left hand up pretty badly, so I haven't been able to move my fingers since last Saturday, and 2. My computer was damaged beyond repair by the crash, so all of the work I had saved and not backed up yet was deleted, which was most of Star Fox: Filling the Void, so I've spent a ton of time rewriting that today, and I plan to do the same tomorrow. Updates should be returning to a somewhat normal schedule, but for now, I give you this little idea I thought up while in the hospital. I hope it suffices. **

**-ThatWinchieGuy**


	7. The Only One I'll Love

**The Only One I'll Love**

"Go ahead. Have fun." Fox said through a forced smile. This was going to hurt.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive." He said, still feining joy, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Thanks, Fox." And then she was gone, out the door in seconds.

Fox watched as Krystal lept into the arms of her love; a love that was not him. He watched, in pain, as her lips touched his… and then he lowered the blinds, unable to face the reality that came up to greet him.

_I should be happy for her. She looks happy. That's what I wanted for her, right?_

Fox slid his hands down his face, eager to swipe away the false grin.

_It's not my place to be jealous. She's happy. She doesn't think of me that way. _

Fox walked into the kitchen, sick to his stomach. He bee-lined for the refrigerator. Fox threw open it's door and grabbed whatever odd amount of alcohol he could. And then he sat there, drinking from each bottle, one by one, until his fur was frazzled from him tearing at it, his eyes stained red. Fox stumbled around the house for hours, unable to locate the bathroom.

"Where the….is it?!" Fox yelled into the dark corners of the living room, dazed and confused. Finally, he found his way there, let himself fall onto the toilet, and vomited.

Fox stayed this way for hours into the night, and when Krystal didn't come home, it became worse. He knew what she was doing with him. But did she know what she was doing to Fox?

Finally, Fox awoke after a short "nap", which had been induced via contact between the toilet and his head. Fox forced himself up from the floor-which was by now covered with all sorts of bodily fluids- and towards the mirror.

"Look at me…." Fox moaned, staring himself down in the mirror. It was as if the two sides of him were fighting. One had already gone completely insane, and the other was desperately hanging to sanity. It seemed to him a losing battle, like insanity would inevitably devour him. He'd never loved anybody like he loved her… and she just didn't seem to care. How could she do this to him? Leave him alone, covered in his own vomit and tears?

There seemed to be no solution, no easy way out, and no way to ever be happy again. Fox stood there and realized that it was over; that he'd die a horrible, bloody death in space and very few people would actually care. What a feeling it was…..

**Sorry for the short entry, but this piece is very sentimental – and in some ways healing- to me because I've recently gone through something like this in my life. I had to write this in order to better understand the situation, and I think it came out pretty good. Thanks for reading,**

**-ThatWinchieGuy**


	8. A New Life

Falco looked out over the landscape, quickly passing by it as the train blasted through the mountains. It was beautiful; a flowing river slicing the land in two, snowcapped peaks towering above him. It was a shame he didn't have more time to look at it, to study it.

Still, Falco watched on as snow began to fall over the wooded region. It seemed fitting, that something should come to ruin such beauty. Especially considering the circumstances that brought him to said beauty.

He didn't want to think about that. This wasn't supposed to happen.

Falco looked to his feet, glaring at his tiny suitcase, filled with every single thing he owned. He picked it up and placed it on his lap. He ran his hand over the cracked and worn leather of it's surface until he finally reached it's clasp. He pulled the clasp open so that he could observe the suitcase's contents.

A rusted blaster, his father's flight jacket, a wallet filled with 40 dollars, his cell phone, and a crinkled paper with an address on it.

Falco picked up the piece of paper, reading the address over and over.

_15 Nuvola Court, Corneria City, Corneria. _

Falco sighed and turned his attention back outside.

_I'm comin', Fox. _

Falco thought, watching as the snow covered the sky, and the sun disappeared behind the grandeur of the mountains.

Fox's father had recently died; something Falco could relate with. His own father had just been placed in a high security prison. Falco didn't think he'd ever make it out, and his mother had died at his birth. And there was NO WAY he was going to let himself get placed in a foster home.

He was all on his own, and, as much as he hated to admit it, Falco didn't like it that way.

He also didn't like the fact that he was losing control.

Or that he had no choice.

Or that he had no idea what he was doing, traveling on a train to some faraway city.

Falco stood up and walked away from his seat. There had to be some way to understand all of this, right? He couldn't just walk blindly where he was led, he couldn't just let himself stay down.

Falco had to get a grip.

…..

Falco stepped up the stairs, studying the large structure in front of him.

"Damn, Fox…I knew you were rich, but…." Falco thought aloud.

He was standing in front of the McCloud Manor, Fox's home. Or, at least, his former home. It was strange that Fox wanted to meet Falco here, of all places. Should Fox be discovered, Falco had no idea what would happen to him. He'd probably end up with what Falco was trying to escape; a house filled with annoying siblings and nobody that really gave a shit whether you lived or died.

Falco knocked tentatively on the door. After a moment's wait, it slowly creaked open, revealing a Fox completely different than the one Falco was used to.

Fox's fur was matted and covered in all sorts of grime and filth. His eyes were bleached red, and bloodshot. He shivered incessantly, as if he was freezing to death. Which, considering the season, he probably was.

Fox motioned Falco inside with a limp hand.

"Fox…holy shit, man…."

The house was dirty and decimated; tables overturned, broken beer bottles littered everywhere, rats crawling around.

"Falco…it's good to see you."

"Well, I wish I could say the same…what happened to you?"

"Hiding from police and whatnot. I've been living in the streets for a few weeks now." Fox said, looking at his feet.

"Damn… you alright?"

"Hah…what do you think?" Fox plopped down, his back sliding across the wall.

It was sad. A 16 year old boy, reduced to this.

"So…why'd you call me?" Falco asked, eager to steer away from the sentimental conversations.

"I'm going to be short with this, since the cops will show up soon: I'm going to re-form Star Fox. And I'm going to need an ace pilot to back me up out there."

"And you want me to be that guy?"

"I don't see anybody better."

Fox put his hand out, awaiting an answer.

Falco took it, and picked Fox up off the floor.

"I'm in."


	9. Failure

Falco's eyes trailed over the short email that sat before him.

_Dear Mr. Lombardi, _

_It is my displeasure to inform you that Falco has failed his trigonometry final exam. He has passed the course with a 68 average, but will need to retake the final next year in January. _

_Mrs. Puller_

He couldn't believe it. After all the work he'd put in, he just couldn't believe it. He'd looked at the exam's answers. He was positive that he'd gotten a 66. He could have just scraped by. But he didn't. He just floundered and failed.

_This sucks._

Falco sighed and ran his hand through his hair, pulling lightly on it. He didn't really know what to think, he didn't really know what to say or what to do. He just sat there, mouth agape, rereading the email over and over. He didn't really feel anything, just the emptiness of messing up the one thing he knew his father would've cared about.

Falco had always trusted his father. He knew that at any time he could go to his dad and his dad would tell him something that would somehow make things just a little bit better and show hope for the future. He never really felt alone while his father was around.

Which he wasn't. He was gone.

Falco remembered his father's funeral vividly. The sights, the smells, the atmosphere; all of it combined to form one lucid nightmare that reoccurred every single night in every single dream. Anything good that would happen to him would carry with it the loneliness that came from knowing that the only person who would really care about it was gone.

That was why Falco was so secluded and secretive, that was why he was so stagnant and collected all the time. Because, somewhere, deep down, every inch of Falco's body was trying desperately to stab itself in the throat to end the pain of being so alone. He never showed emotion because there were too many emotions to show. The only thing keeping him from actually doing it was the tiny ledge of hope that Falco clung to by his fingernails, that someday somebody would find him and things would be okay.

His father was always so proud of him, always so pleased with what he did, meanwhile Falco knew that it was sort of below par. He knew that he didn't care, and he knew that his father did. Now, though, there was nobody to care whether Falco failed or succeeded or passed or whatever. Nobody really cared about Falco.

But now, Falco would have to retake the exam and go through the trying mockery that would be the remainder of his high school year. He wasn't so sure he could do that.

Falco wasn't sure why he kept up the charade that his father was still alive. He also wasn't sure that anybody believed him. Maybe he believed that his father wasn't truly dead if he acted like he was still there, if he remembered and went through the trouble of keeping at least his memory alive. It was pointless, really. Marcello Lombardi was long dead, and nothing would ever change that fact.

For a while, Falco just wandered around his empty house, with a sinking feeling stuck in his stomach. It was clear that whatever it was, it was intent on staying. What point was there now? Why should he even try? Everybody he really loved was gone, nobody liked him, he was a failure in the one thing he tried to be good at….was there anything positive to pull from it?

Yeah, he was a semi-decent pilot, but that wasn't a big deal. His father wouldn't have cared much about that, or at least Falco didn't think he would. And it was only a hobby anyways, and he wasn't even flying planes legally. He just sort of snuck out there sometimes.

As Falco paced the room, trying to come up with some faint reason to be happy with life at the moment, he realized that he was being an idiot. His father would've been proud anyways; he always was and always would be. What was upsetting him was the moment of figuring out why he was the way he was, and that the reason he acted how he did was far from a sobering one. He acted the way he did because he didn't want to get hurt anymore. His brain just shut down and stopped letting anything in or out, like an isolationist country. The scariest part was, Falco wasn't so sure he could reverse it.

But, in classic-yet-not-so-classic Falco style, Falco shrugged and said, "I'll get over it," and went on with his life; bottling all the pain up in his mind until the day he had the experience to sort it all out.

**Thank god my writer's block is gone! I've seriously been trying to write Last Lap, but I just have no idea where the hell I should go with it. So, for the time being, enjoy this one-shot, but I'll try to have my brain functioning properly as quick as possible.**

**-ThatWinchieGuy**


	10. Choking

Choking

There was something soothing about losing them. There was, of course, things he'd never get back, but….he was willing to risk it. Perhaps he was coerced into being "willing" to risk it but that was another story entirely. Corneria called, and, whether he liked it or not, he had to answer. He was a soldier, first and foremost. That was his job, right? Listen and not complain, carry out his orders with ruthless efficiency. That was what he'd done for all of his life, short as it had been up until now.

The entire operation was being paid for by the Academy. They higher-ups there said that he was "doing a service" for his classmates. That it was "okay" that he got the operation now because it would "show the other students what it was like and then they could decide whether this was something they wanted or not." He wasn't even sure if he wanted it. The only other first-hand knowledge he could get was from his father; the usual calm and collected sage voice in his life had seemingly abandoned him, and it just repeated the same monotone "it's okay" as his supervisors. They'd all done it, why weren't they helping him? It was as though there was some mutual agreement between the two parties, in which they had decided not to tell him about some unfortunate side effect of the operation.

He'd heard, of course, about what it was like to live without legs. Every single "I can still feel them there" scene in films and other media replayed unceasingly in his mind. He wondered if that was what it was really like. Medical practitioners called this sensation phantom pain, and his doctors explained that he, like all before him, would feel it. Could it really hurt, feeling something that isn't there? What did a missing limb actually FEEL like? Nobody answered.

As the day of the operation drew nearer and nearer, his colleagues became more and more inquisitive.

"Did the doctors say it was gonna hurt?"

"Do you think I should do it too, Fox?"

"Why are you doing it so early?"

He didn't really have an answer for them. Nobody had told him anything, nobody had explained the process to him. He only knew that he'd go in with four limbs and come out with two. And that there was some overarching purpose to all of this confusion that at the moment escaped him. Thoughts of retreating leaked their way more frequently into his mind. If this was what being a soldier was, he wasn't so sure he wanted it. It was too late now to back away; the preparations were nearly complete, with only two weeks until the operation.

He spent many of those fourteen nights alone in his small room on the South end of the campus. He'd purchased a leg roller- a rolling pin device designed for rolling lactic acid out of one's calf- from the running store a few blocks away from the Academy. It rolled across his calves over and over, until agony set in and even then continued to roll. He tried to keep feeling, good or bad, in them at all times. He wore long socks that rode up to his knees underneath his uniform trousers, feeling the soft cotton prick at the hairs on his legs ever so slightly.

The day of the operation itself was a blur. The night prior had been filled with multiple meetings and press conferences. He'd met with other amputees and students and men and women and children, all of whom wished him "good luck" and "get better soon." He was so infested with mind altering drugs that he could barely speak, only responding with a weak "thank you" or a slight nod of the head while looking into their eyes. By the next morning, the drugs had completely dulled his senses, and he teetered dangerously over the canyon of unconsciousness. The doctors came to his dorm room shortly after he awoke, and thrust him onto the gurney to be carried the long quarter mile stretch to the Academy's hospital. His throat constricted and pulled itself apart as his eyes rolled back into his skull for the long nap.

Coming back was like leaving his bed after a nightmare. His vision was entirely blurred. He couldn't see, he thought "I must have died something must have gone wrong where am I what is happening?" He sat there for some time, as bits and pieces of the operation came back to him. The gentle whir of the laser as it inched ever closer towards his skin. The sound of rushing water as his bone parted with his the rest of his body. He tried to look down at his knee, but he was tied tightly down to the hospital bed. He struggled with his bonds for some time but to no avail.

The head doctor came into the room, asked him how he was feeling.

"I want to see my legs."

The doctor said he couldn't do that right now, as the skin around the area was still sensitive to stimuli. The doctor warned about the use of his quadriceps and hamstrings. He wondered if they had even operated at all; he could not see his legs but he could feel them, uninjured.

"How long was I gone for?"

Three weeks; the standard time. The doctor informed him that the operation had gone incredibly smoothly, and that he should be able to begin therapy in about a month. Until then, waiting.

The two weeks of laying on his back staring at the ceiling reminded him of the leg roller. Excruciating pain. Physical pain was absent, for the most part. Mentally he felt the press of the leg roller over and over and over until it began stripping away at his skull and working its way into his brain. His vision returned slowly, day by day. He wanted to look down but his bandages kept his neck stationary. The nurses and doctors were nice enough, explaining things in plain English to him. Most of the information he received was only a slight variation of what the head doctor had told him after his awakening.

Finally, a chance to sit upright. Two nurses slid his body upwards in the bed, so that his back was resting on the headrest. They began to slowly unravel his bandages as the doctor explained.

"Now, when you look down, try not to panic. I know that this first look is always the toughest, so do not feel ashamed if you cannot take in this truth all at once."

The bandages came off.

"Look down now, please."

A shooting pain ran up his entire body the instant he looked, starting at his big toes and advancing towards his brain. His knees looked like welded metal, gluing the mechanical prosthesis onto his body. Two titanium calves shimmered in the sunlight that poked through the suffocating hospital window. He tried to move the ankles; maybe they were like boots. His foot exploded. He screamed. His jaw clenched.

"Calm, Fox, calm….as you know, we amputated your legs from the patella down. These are your prosthetics, designed by-"

"How do I stop the pain?"

He was experiencing what professionals call phantom pain; the pain felt in amputated limbs. The doctor explained that there were side effects that came with his new legs, that he would feel like his original legs were still there for some considerable time. The movie scenes he'd seen replayed again.

Each day, professionals came in to assist in teaching him how to use his new legs. Each day, he failed. They explained that many patients learned to use the prosthetics by attempting to move their old legs, and learning through trial and error which stimuli worked and which did not.

His legs felt as though they were constantly crushed by a large boulder, cracking and breaking and snapping apart into millions of tiny pieces. He asked time and time again,

"How do I stop the pain?"

But no one told him.

In the third week of recovery his father was admitted into the room. He stared at the metal foot at the base of his father's pants and immediately blurted out,

"How do I stop the pain, dad?"

"You can't really, Fox. It just runs its course."

"Does it ever go away?"

"It does for some, for others it only weakens."

His father's pain still hadn't left him, though it was dulled. His father experienced the sensation that his calves had slowly been shrinking for years and years; now it felt as though the only thing left was his foot. His father hugged him and was ushered out of the room by the prosthetic experts.

The month passed, and he was able to stand and walk. He activated forward motion of the leg by wiggling his big toes, and backwards motion by balancing on his heel. Of course, none of these mental commands translated; all the therapists saw was walking.

The crushing pain worsened when he tried moving. It was like two large hands were trying to squeeze all the insides out of his calves. The presence of his old legs permeated the existence of the titanium prosthetics. He noticed that his small toe would have been poking out of the metal foot slightly, that his ankles had once been much thicker and robust.

After months of unending agony, he was discharged from the hospital. He was greeted at the doors by thousands of cheering colleagues and teachers, and the same press conferences as the night before the operation began once more. Once all the dust had settled in the public domain, he returned to classes.

He found it hard to concentrate. He glared enviously at all the calves around him, remembering the sensation of wearing pants and feeling socks and feeling the leg roller. All he felt now was choking. His grades tanked. He couldn't focus on anything but the pain and the envy. People asked him if they, too, should opt for the operation. He wanted to say no, but he knew he couldn't yet. He stalled.

Flight simulations went well. Six months had passed since the operation, and he had regained basic control over the lower half of his legs. Some things were difficult, like jumping and kicking, but for the most part piloting came easily, as it always had. He knew he just wanted to get back behind the controls of an Arwing. He wanted to know that it was all worth it, that it was all okay and that all this pain and suffering was for some twisted end.

He slipped into a real Arwing early one morning two weeks later, as his Scout Aviation class required him to. He conducted all the pre-flight checks subconsciously, furiously tapping his phantom foot on the titanium floor of the cockpit. Everything was ready. He gritted his teeth and guided the Arwing towards the launch strip at the center of the airfield. The Cornerian Military's standard feminine AI came through his headset.

"Arwing Mark 2, Ready for launch, Cadet. Proceed when satisfied."

Sweat poured down his brow and pattered onto his prosthetics. He inhaled and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth as his hand slammed down on the launch button.

Acceleration filled his lungs, and the boulder slammed down, choking the blood in his legs harder than it ever had before.

**This is just a short one shot to get me back into the spirit of writing about Star Fox after my 9 month hiatus. Thank you all so much for sticking around and, if you're new, feel free to read any of my other works. As always, please try to provide constructive criticism in your reviews should you choose to leave one. Thanks for reading!**

**-ThatWinchieGuy**


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